Atmospheric Barrier
by Dorminchu
Summary: Louie's having second thoughts about the return home.


_a/n: Pikmin again! I took a few liberties with Louie's character, but not enough to detract from his overall personality, I think?_

* * *

The first and last time Louie tries to explain the way he feels to the captain is one cold, quiet night aboard the _Hocotate_. The captain is asleep, and the ship's AI isn't much for conversation—the stars are all he has for company.

Louie's long since adjusted to the circadian ache in his muscles and in his temples, unsure whether to attribute the latter to stress or sinuses—this planet's atmosphere is crawling with multiple strains of pollen and other undesirable stimuli that cannot be cooked or dissected, and therefore serve no other purpose than to vex him. His mind keeps working of its own accord—he's due down onto the surface in six hours.

Yesterday was busy, just like the previous day and the one before that; it seems like lately they've been doing little else but revisiting old ground, carving and re-carving the same paths through the terrain below as the local monsters reclaim territory in the absence of a greater threat—_we need to stay in one place_, he thinks, _and flush out the treasure in each area completely before moving on_.

Then again, there is a good reason he is co-pilot; Olimar would struggle to complete the work of two, and likewise Louie's sure he'd end up digesting slowly in the gut of some ravenous beast without him. The wildlife needs time to replenish itself—it would be inadvisable to exhaust any available resources during the mission. Louie also knows it's unwise to act in the favor of one's grievances—it'll be even busier tomorrow.

The only reason Prez assigned them this mission is because he didn't want to go himself, and he needed to do something to make the company look good. And Olimar's a lot more patient with him than he probably should be.

Their last spelunking session could have gone better; twenty-three losses, because the Fiery Bulblax got the better of his group of reds and purples, too few to do much but make it angry. Louie hid in the bed of clovers and fed it whites until it began to seize, its insides revolting, regurgitating bile and blood and undigested little limbs and bodies that smelled like rotten plant-matter. He tried not to think about the screaming but he was shaking when Olimar found him. Louie didn't say why he did it, but he knew; because he didn't want to be eaten, or crushed, and he was out of pikmin anyway he had no choice. He'd worried all day that Olimar would leave him behind, but it was a childish fear, and Olimar had looked at him like a second son when he'd confessed.

If Olimar really did leave him behind, Louie could eat to save himself from starving, turn a pile of guts into a generous meal. He doesn't, because he knows bug guts won't bring in the pokos. And also because he's seen enough of Olimar's polite declinations to assume that he's making the captain uncomfortable.

Today, the remaining pikmin weren't following so close behind. Maybe it was a trick of the poor light, but he imagined then that they looked uneasy.

Just because Olimar won't let him handle the important tasks, it doesn't mean he can't help out in other ways. Louie's heard enough complaints from the ship every time he tries to take apart a bulborb, dissect every organ, try to salvage the skin. He wants to be sure, that's all.

Olimar?

He receives no answer except for the muted hum of the ship. Louie frowns.

Hey. Cap'n.

Nothing still. Olimar sleeps on the bunk below him because he's scared of falling off in the middle of the night. Louie turns over so he's facing the edge and peers down. His co-pilot's silhouette is visible faintly in the light from the sleeping console and the starry expanse outside.

_Hey_, says Louie for the third time, more insistently. The blood's going to his head.

Olimar grunts, then rolls over. Must have woke him.

Louie…? What time is it?

Louie rolls over.

Uh. Four.

A childish grin splits his face as he turns his eyes back towards the tiny porthole. I really like it here, he says softly, with a kind of reverence that's typically withheld towards a lover or some other subject of equal importance.

Olimar makes a sound that's as incredulous as it is sleepy. You like it here. In the ship?

Yeah. Well, not just the ship. I like this planet.

I thought you were scared.

I guess. But it's pretty from up, here isn't it?

Oh. Well— he pauses to stifle a yawn —I'll concede that there's a charm to the environment, but I wouldn't want to spend the rest of my existence here. You'd have to travel between the ship and every night, to avoid predators and the atmosphere. It's no way to live.

Louie guesses he always knew Olimar wouldn't understand. That's okay, he tells himself. He's got a wife and kids to take care of. And Louie doesn't really have anyone, except his aunt; but she doesn't count.

I like the plants, he says without waiting for a response. It's relaxing.

Olimar goes quiet.

Cap'n.

What? Oh, yes, Louie.

He always sounds uneasy. Louie wishes he could reassure him, somehow.

Big day tomorrow, Louie.

Today, you mean?

Olimar groans.

Sorry.

No, Louie, you're right. You're younger than I am. It's no wonder you're still full of energy.

Louie laughs. Okay, Cap'n.


End file.
